Identity Crisis (Sam McRae Mystery 1)

It was a long time before either of us spoke—probably only ten minutes, but it seemed longer.

Various parts of my body were talking to me, with nothing particularly good to say. If my doctor had seen me, I don’t think he would have had anything good to say either.

Melanie looked almost catatonic. Now and then, I checked to see if she was still breathing.

Finally, she muttered something.

“What?” I asked.

“My luggage ...”

I sighed. “I know. I’m hoping the bus driver or somebody noticed it. You can use my cell to call Greyhound if you want.” I dug the little-used phone from my purse. I’d bought the thing only for emergencies. This seemed to qualify.

While Melanie tracked down the number and made the arrangements, I scanned signs for the next food, gas, lodging exit and pulled into the first place I saw, a Perkins Restaurant. As Melanie hung up, she said, “What are we doing here?”

“Getting something to eat. What do you think?”

“How can you think of food?”

“It could do you good. We’ve got a couple of hours to drive ahead of us.”

Inside, we took a booth. The waitress came, and Melanie ordered toast, changing it to a club sandwich only after I insisted she get more. I decided to carbo-load on a big stack of pancakes, and we split a “Perkins Famous Bottomless Pot of Coffee.”

Melanie’s face was regaining its color, but she still looked rattled. I felt drained. I was tempted to order two pots of coffee.

“Do you think this is a good idea?” Melanie glanced out the window. “Those guys might still be looking for us.”

“I doubt it. They’re probably on their way back to Maryland, and they’re not going to stop at every restaurant and gas station on the way to look for us.”

We fell silent again. I tried to gauge when I could ask questions. I was also trying to figure out which ones to ask first.

“So,” Melanie said after our coffee came. “Tom ... what happened?”

“He was shot. Found dead in Bruce Schaeffer’s apartment.”

“God.” She shook her head. “And they think I did it? That’s a good one.”

“How’s that?”

“Well, between the Mob and his so-called friends, there are plenty of other suspects.”

“That may be,” I said. “But you’re the one who ran.”

“I told you—”

“And I’m just telling you how it looks.”

She said nothing for a moment, then nodded. “Pretty bad, I guess.”

“Definitely not good.” I paused. “So you didn’t know Tom was dead?”

“No, I didn’t. The last time I saw him, he was alive.”

“When was that?”

“Saturday—the day after we met at your office. When I got home that night, I found a letter from Tom slid under my door. He apologized for everything he’d done. He said he understood it was over, but he had to talk to me about something, and it couldn’t be over the phone. He also said he was in danger. Maybe I was, too.

“I thought at first he was crazy. Or trying to provoke me. But something made me call him.”